


Glory, Please!

by solangelosunangel



Category: Blades of Glory (2007), Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, but lowkey, i love blades of glory, im so excited, loveeeee, omg, so its just a check please blades of glory au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-12 03:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7918150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solangelosunangel/pseuds/solangelosunangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle are the two best figure skaters in the whole world, and they definitely have a rivalry that's definitely not just unresolved sexual tension.  When Bitty and Jack are banned from men's singles, will they be able to work together to be compete in pairs?</p><p>Basically an au where Bitty is Chazz Michael Michaels and Jack is Jimmy MacElroy.  Parse is that one weird fan of Jimmy's and John Johnson is Jack's coach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! I'm super excited for this. I don't own any of the characters. It's not an exact replica of Blades of Glory, but I'm stealing the main plot points.
> 
> Tell me what you think!
> 
> Also... I know absolutely nothing about figure skating. So make of that what you will.

                Jack Zimmermann skates to the center of the rink.  He takes position and waits for the sound of the music.

            At the first lush notes of the song, Jack moves his feet, his arms, his body.  Scattered yells ring out around the arena at his first half-turn.  Jack Zimmermann is popular enough that even a slight movement of his little finger would garner some applause, but it isn’t until the next leap that he gets a huge round of cheering.  There’s little that Jack can do to stop the wide, true smile from growing on his face.

“ _Hard to be sure_

_Sometimes I feel so insecure_

_And love's so distant and obscure_ ”

            Jack jumps to the sound of Céline Dion.  The Canadian singer is as close as Jack can get to paying homage to his home country without denouncing the country he’s representing—America—on the World Stage: the Winter Olympics.

“ _All by myself_

_Don't wanna be_

_All by myself anymore_ ”

            Jack doesn’t understand the technicalities—or ironies—of him skating to a song about not wanting to be alone anymore.  Jack’s coach, John Johnson, knows.  But that might be some sort of coincidence.  Or metaphysics.  Call it what you will.  Coach Johnson also knows what happens to Jack and Bitty at the end of this story, so…

            Speaking of.   Eric Bittle, dubbed ‘Bitty’ by his fans, watches from the side of the rink, distaste plain on his face.  The two have a rivalry going, and Eric Bittle spares hatred for neither Jack Zimmermann nor that glorious ass of his.  Shit.  Eric’s getting off track.  He focuses on going over his routine once more in his head.

            Jack finishes with a flourish.  He skates over to his coach.

            “What’d you think?”

            “Amazing.  Excellent.  You nailed it, Jack,” Johnson says.

            “How did I do, Dad?” Jack says, hopeful.

            Jack’s father smiles at him.  Jack reads it as disappointment, but Mr. Zimmermann feels only pride for his son.

            Jack Zimmermann, child prodigy.  Born to Bob Zimmermann, a hockey superstar, and Alicia Zimmermann, an internationally famous model.  Jack grew up around hockey, and he started playing in a league at age six.

            He played and played and played.  He was poised to be the overall number one draft pick.  He was poised to score goals, win games, playoffs.  The Stanley Cup.  Jack was a superstar, just like his father.

            Until.

            Until Jack overdosed on anxiety medications and was taken to rehab.

            He gave up hockey and turned to figure skating instead.

            His father was nothing but supportive, but he had no way of showing it.  Jack saw disappointment and regret in his father’s eyes.  They were disconnected, had no way of showing their feelings to each other.

            Nonetheless, Jack started raking in the gold.  The trophies and the medals and the ribbons.  He rose quickly through the ranks and caught everyone’s eye.  He caught Eric Bittle’s eye for more than one reason.

            John Johnson snickers as he thinks of the rivalry between the two skaters.  He wonders how much of it is just unresolved sexual tension.  His wondering is just a formality, of course.  Coach John Johnson _knows_.

            “ _5.8, 5.9, 6.0, 6.0, 5.9, 5.9._ ”  Jack’s scores are good.

            “Those are fine, so long as the 5.8 doesn’t kill me,” Jack says.

            “Was that your routine, Zimmermann?  I fell asleep halfway through,” Eric Bittle says.  That was a good insult.  He pats himself on the back—in his mind, of course. 

            “Maybe you should get some more sleep then,” Jack says.  “You know, they say eight to ten—”

            “Was that supposed to be an insult?” Bitty says.  “I think playing hockey affected your brain.  Too many pucks to the head?”

            “At least I get enough sleep,” Jack answers.  That was a good insult.  He pats himself on the back—in his mind, of course. 

            Eric shakes his head in disbelief (definitely _not_ endearment).  Jack Zimmermann is definitely not cute or endearing.  Eric skates onto the rink.

            Now, a smallish boy from Georgia is not who you would expect to be the ‘bad boy’ of the figure skating scene.  A tiny blond boy from Georgia _wearing sequins and glitter_ is not who you would call a bad boy.

            Eric Bittle destroys any and all stereotypes you try to put on him.

            Oh, how the boys used to laugh at him, when he was just a small gay boy in Georgia who liked to don leotards on the weekends and drive hours and hours to skate against other boys who liked to don leotards on the weekends.  No one is laughing now when Eric Bittle has thirty-seven gold medals from various competitions.  Sure, he’s still a smallish gay boy from Georgia, but he has something behind his name now.  Or, rather, his name _means something_.

            Loud guitar blasts through the arena’s speakers.  Bitty smiles, viciously and hungrily.

“ _It’s early morning, the sun comes out_

_Last night was shaking and pretty loud_ ”

            When Bitty skates, it’s effortless and seamless, seductive and sexy.  It’s provocative and erotic and _perfection_.  Eric Bittle is sex on ice, as the tabloids like to say.

            He makes eye contact with Jack as the song’s hook booms all around them.  The world narrows down to just the two of them.

“ _Here I am_

_Rock you like a hurricane_ ”

            John Johnson snorts.  The buildup to the climax of this narrative is pathetic and cliché.  He wishes that Eric and Jack would just get their shit together.

“ _The wolf is hungry, he runs the show_

_He’s licking his lips, he’s ready to win_ ”

            When he’s done, Bitty skates over to Jack.  “There’s more of that where it came from.”  Bitty runs his tongue over his teeth, and he breathes heavily.  Jack tries to mask the pink across his cheeks.

            “Eric Bittle,” one of the announcers says, “has come in here and captivated this arena like a stack of classic Euro porn.”

            “Eric Bittle,” another says.  “An ice-devouring sex tornado.”

            “Eric Bittle,” says the last.  “is a sex god, which is not to say this heartthrob doesn't have a softer side.  He recently published a baking cookbook, _Pies, Oh My!_ ”

            Bitty gives Jack a smirk.  “I hope you brought your silver polish, Zimmermann, because that was gold.”

            “That was disgusting,” Jack says unconvincingly.

            Bitty cocks a sultry eyebrow at Jack, but says nothing.

            His scores are read out.  “ _5.9, 6.0, 5.8, 6.0, 5.9, 5.9._ ”

            “Suck that, Jack Zimmermann,” Bitty taunts.  He thinks that he won, but, alas, he only tied with Jack.

            “You got the same scores I got,” Jack says.

            “I don’t believe that; I’m not an idiot,” Bitty says at the same time one of the announcers says, “Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a tie.”

            Bitty’s eyes widen in shock. 

            “From the United States, Eric Bittle and Jack Zimmermann.”

            Cheers.  That’s all that either man can hear.  Jack staggers backward.  He had hoped… he was wrong.  That it wasn’t a tie. 

            “You’re fired,” he hears his father croak out.

            Coach Johnson looks confused.  “But I got him a gold medal.”

            “You got me half a gold medal,” Jack says solemnly.

            Eric and Jack stand next to each other on the platform, one brunette and one blond, one tall and one short, one modestly innocent and the other known for being nearly the opposite.  They jostle against each other as the anthem plays. 

            “You have to think,” an announcer speculates.  “The only thing better than getting gold is sharing it with your fellow countryman.”

            “You smell like vanilla and cologne,” Jack says.  Was that supposed to be an insult?  Does Jack even know what an insult is?

            “Yes, I do.  Now, move over,” Eric answers.

            “Don’t touch me,” Jack says.  And then, “You’re so small.”

            “That’s not what you’ll be saying when—”

            Jack shifts, and Bitty falls off of the podium.  Jack smiles at the shocked crowd with fake innocence.  Bitty kicks his leg out, sending Jack tumbling down to the ice.

            “Look, Zimmermann's also down now,” says an announcer.  “I have never in all my years seen anything this disgraceful on the world stage.”

            “I am stunned silent,” another says.  “Absolutely silent, Jim.”

            Jack and Eric start fighting, slipping on the ice and landing punches.  Jack is well-versed in fighting from his time playing hockey, while Bitty learned to hold his own during high school to protect himself from bullies.

* * *

 

            “As we prepare to hear testimony, Bittle and Zimmermann will be given a chance to defend their actions at the Olympics…” a council member says.

            “We love you, Jack!” someone yells from behind the desk where the two figure skaters are seated.

            “Let's get started, shall we?” says the same councilman.  “If either one of you would like to make a statement before the commission passes judgement, you may do so at this time.”

            Bitty starts to talk, but Jack stands up, speaking loudly and formally.  Bitty grimaces and sinks further down in his seat.

            “Fans, friends, esteemed members of the committee,” Jack starts.  “I don't know what I can say, but I hope you can all forgive me.  More than that, I hope the children can forgive me.”

            “Oh, my Lord,” Eric says.

            “I place my future in their tiny hands.”

            “That is pathetic.”  Definitely not endearing.  Nope.  Eric does not like the fact that Jack likes kids.  Does Jack want kids?

            “God bless you. God bless everyone.  Thank you.”  Jack sits down, and Eric stands up.

            “God bless you, Jack.”  Jack turns around to see who it is.  Ugh.  It’s that one creepy fan of Jack’s, who keeps sending him those weird letters.  Kent Parson.  “God bless your soul.”

            “Sports Illustrated.  Last issue.  ‘Eric “Bitty” Bittle _is_ figure skating.’  Boom!” Eric yells.  He sits back down with a pointed look in Jack’s direction.

            “The only thing you are is a raunchy sex symbol,” Jack mumbles.  Bitty quirks an eyebrow at him.  Goody.  Another one of Jack Zimmermann’s not-so-insulting insults.

            “All right, duly noted,” says the councilman.  “In accordance with the rules of the International Skating Federation, Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle, you are to be stripped of your medals..."

            “What?” Jack whispers.

            “...and banned from men's figure skating for the remainder of your lives!”  He punctuates his statement with a pounding of his palms on the table beneath him.

            “Hey, you listen to me, old man!” Bitty shouts in outrage.

            “Oh, that sucks,” Coach Johnson says from the back of the room.  Of course, he knows that this will all blow over soon, so it doesn’t worry him too much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years have passed, and Jack and Bitty are back to where they started: at each other's throats.

             Jack Zimmermann sits in the back of the limo with his father.  There has been silence for the whole trip.

            “Jack?” his father starts.  He reaches a hand out to touch his son, but Jack jerks his body away.

            “Let me out,” Jack says.  “Stop the car.  Let me out here.”

            “What are you doing, Jack?”

            “I can’t do this anymore.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “I can’t live with you and Mom anymore.”  That much was true.  Here’s Jack, who lives with his successful parents.  Here’s Jack, who was a hockey star, but overdosed and left.  Here’s Jack, who was a figure skating star, but got banned from the sport.  Here’s Jack, who’s the family disappointment.  He doesn’t think he can look his parents in the eye after all this.  He doesn’t think he can handle seeing their success while he holds onto all of his failures.

            Bob Zimmermann doesn’t know what to say, so he remains silent.  He wishes he was friendlier, closer to his son.

            The limo stops, and Jack climbs out.  He opens the trunk and pulls out his suitcases.  Jack signals the driver to drive away.

            There’s nothing either man can do.  Jack will be okay on his own.

* * *

 

            Years have passed.

            Adam Birkholtz stands at the front of his co-owned ice show.  The other co-owner, Justin Oluransi, shouts at the people pouring in.

            “Tickets for the second show are now available.  Get your tickets for the second show,” he shouts.

            Later, Bitty stands off-stage, waiting for his cue.  The woodland fairies skate around.

            “Oh no!” one says.  “It’s the evil wizard.”

            “BOO!” the crowd yells in chorus.  Bitty slides on the head, takes a deep breath (which was a bad idea.  He should take a deep breath _before_ putting on the sweaty, musty head) and goes onto the ice.  He skates around, hating his life.

            After the show, Bitty sits in his changing room with the rest of the cast—the female woodland fairies and the male woodland elves.  Some other random characters that Eric doesn’t care enough about to figure out what they are.

            One of them, who only goes by “Shitty” for some reason, comes over to Bitty with smoke clouding his head.  Eric waves him off and grabs another beer.

            So this is what figure skating superstar Eric Bittle has come to.  Getting drunk with a bunch of nobodies backstage of a kids’ show.

            Larissa Duan says exactly that when she walks into the room.  “Wow.  Great.  Now you’re getting high with the woodland fairies.  I should fire your sorry ass.”

            “Lar..do…,” Bitty slurs her name together.  “Wait!”  He trails after her, calling her name over and over.

            Adam stops him.  “What are you doing?”

            Bitty stumbles and nearly falls.

            “Hey, Bittle, let's go. Lace up.  The fog machines are primed.  Second show's almost three-quarters full.  You drunk?”

            “No,” Eric lies.  “But this ought to do it.”  He chugs another beer and throws the empty bottle on the ground.  It shatters, sending dangerous shards flying everywhere.

            “I would fire you if you weren't so goddamn beautiful out there.  Get your head on.”

* * *

 

            “They’re too tight,” the little girl squeals as Jack pulls at the laces on her skates.

            “That's because I'm not finished,” Jack says.  “You see, it helps to think of the laces as belonging to three distinct groups.  First, the foundation.”

            “They're too tight.  Daddy! He's crushing me,” the little girl says.

            “Doing it right takes a little bit longer, but it's worth it.”

            “Hey, what are you doing?” the girl’s father says.  “She said it's too tight.”

            “Well, but she's wrong.  I mean, who are you gonna trust, a little girl or Jack Zimmermann?”

            “Who the hell is Jack Zimmermann?” the father says.  Jack frowns.

            “Is there a problem here, sir?” the owner says, walking up to the group.

            “Yeah, this kid is torturing my daughter's foot.”

            “I'm so sorry, sir.  You know what, Jack?  Off the skates.  You're on stockroom duty, now.  Let's go.”

            In the stockroom, Jack opens up boxes and goes through inventory.  It’s boring work, but at least no one will lose circulation in their feet.

            “Hey, Jack.”  A man walks into the stockroom, holding a thick, spiral-bound book in his hands.

            “Kent Parson?  What are you doing here?  You know I have a restraining order against you,” Jack says.  His hand clenches absent-mindedly on his box cutter.

            “Oh, that thing?” Kent says.  “You look great, Jack.  You look amazing. Your hair rocks.”

            “Thanks,” Jack monotones.

            “You look so good. Oh, gosh.  Do you look at yourself?  I totally wanna… cut off your skin and wear it to my birthday.  It's coming up.”

            What the fuck?

            “Yeah, listen, it's great to see you, Kent, but I'm really busy right now.”  Curse my nice personality, Jack thinks.  A meaner man would yell at Parson to get away.

            “Okay, all right, I'm sorry.  I'll cut to the chase.  You gotta start skating again, Jack.”

            That caught Jack’s attention.  “What?” 

            “It's embarrassing stalking a has-been, you know what I mean?”

            Jack rolls his eyes.  It’s embarrassing _being_ a has-been.

            “Look, I almost gave up on you,” Kent continues.  “I started working with that Ukrainian skater, you know the one that looks like Elvis?  And I moved to the Ukraine, and it was cold, and everyone had guns and smelled like soup.”

            What the _fuck_?

            “I sympathize with you, Kent.  I really do, but there's nothing I can do.  I'm banned for life.”

            Somewhere far away, John Johnson bursts out in laughter.  Finally.  He gets to come back to this narrative.  “Don’t be so sure,” Johnson whispers to himself.

            “Don't be so sure,” Kent says.  “Section 14, paragraph G, ‘ _A lifetime ban is irrevocable.  The banned skater can never again compete in any Federation-sanctioned tournament that exists in such a skater's division._ ’ You see? You're only banned from your division: men's singles!  You can still compete in pairs skating.  Pairs.”

            Jack’s eyes widen.  He feels something in the pit of his stomach: hope, desire, sickness—he doesn’t know exactly what.  “How is this possible?  I had so many lawyers work on so many appeals.”

            “Because nobody can obsess like I can.  Good luck, Jack.  And I'm still gonna kill you someday.”

            Kent Parson walks away, leaving Jack with the weird feeling in his stomach and the sprouting thoughts in his head.

* * *

 

            Bitty, drunk, skates onto the ice.  He dances—the lewd dances that he used to do in competitions, some dirtier than he would do even then.  Parents rush to cover up their children’s eyes.  What few teenagers there are in the audience watch with uncomfortable feelings growing between their hips.  Bitty’s _that_ good.

            Eric Bittle slowly takes off the wizard suit.

            “Ladies and Gentlemen,” Adam Birkholtz announces.  “Wellies on Ice will be cancelled until further notice.  No refunds will be given.”  Fuck.  This is gonna be bad for business.

* * *

 

             John Johnson, having gotten a call from Jack Zimmermann, sits at a café across from Jack.

             Jack talks a mile a minute, with more words than Johnson thinks he’s ever heard him string together before in his life.

            “There's a loophole. I was banned from men's singles but not pairs.  I can skate in the Olympics again.  I'm a skater.  There's nothing to move on to, except for winning the gold again and keeping it this time.

            “You know how hard it is to find a partner?” Johnson asks.  “Even if you did, you gotta qualify for Nationals.  That's a month away.  I mean, sign-up is in two days.”  Johnson’s having fun, arguing when he knows that Jack won’t take anything he says to heart.

            “It can't be that hard.  I mean...”

            “I gotta go,” he says.  Johnson’s not gonna miss it when Bittle gets fired.  “It's good to see you.”

            “Wait, Coach!” 

            “Don’t worry.  I’ll see you later on TV at Wellies on Ice.”

            Jack had nearly forgotten how weird his old coach was.  What’s Wellies on Ice?

* * *

 

            “Jack Zimmermann?” Justin Oluransi says.  “Another great walking through the halls of the Wellies.  Welcome to my little production.  If you’re here to thank me for firing Eric Bittle, it was my pleasure.”

            “Eric was here?”  Jack startles.  Is this what his coach was talking about?

            “Yeah, unfortunately.  But it’s fantastic that you’re here.  And yes, no need to ask.  I’ll consider you for a position.”

            Jack is shocked, but answers back politely.  “Oh.  I’m not looking for a job.  I’m actually looking for a female skater to compete with me at Nationals.”

            Justin scrunches his eyebrows.  “Are you trying to skater poach?  You trying to break up my family?  Why don’t you get out of here before I throw down?”

            Behind the pair, Eric Bittle tries to leave Wellies on Ice without drawing any attention to himself.

            “Hey, where are you going, Eric?” Justin calls.  “You need to pay for damages.”

            Eric turns around, and his eyes narrow as he sees Jack there.

            “Bittle,” Jack says.

            “Zimmermann.”

            Eric comes over.

            “I see you still bake those pies,” Jack says.  He pokes Bitty in his soft stomach.

            “I see you still work out,” Bitty retaliates.  Wait, fuck.  That wasn’t an insult.

            “You crushed my dreams.”

            “Dreams?  Shit.  I haven’t had one of those in years.

            “Zip it, Bittle.  Zip it, or I will punch you in your crap lousy face.”

            “This ends tonight.”

            “It’s daytime, you idiot,” Jack says.

            “Now it’s on!”

            “You’re so small!”

            They run at each other.          

* * *

 

            John Johnson watches the videos on the news that evening.

            “Local figure skating fans got more than they bargained for today when a children’s ice show was interrupted by a street fight between two former champions,” says the chipper lady.

            The video is blurred as Jack throws Eric onto the ice.  He flies through the air, landing gracefully on his feet.

            “Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle, once at the top of the skating world, picked up today where they left off more than three years ago…”

            Johnson tunes the woman out as he watches Jack pick Eric up.  The smaller man holds his arm above his head as Jack turns them in a circle.  Jack drops Bittle into a Styrofoam tree decoration.

            “Fans remember Bittle and Zimmermann as gold medalists who, in a bizarre turn of events, were banned from competition for life.”

            John Johnson replays the video.  He knows that it will take hard work, but these two men are going to the Olympics.

            Of course they are.  John Johnson wouldn’t be wasting his time in this story if there wasn’t a point to it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!!!
> 
> find me on tumblr: fiftyshadesofthegreylady.tumblr.com
> 
> Comments and kudos are VERY much appreciated. I try to respond to all of them, but forgive me if it takes me a little while.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Bittle sign up for the National Finals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shhh just pretend that the dates just make sense.
> 
> And I still don't know anything about figure skating.

               Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle sit inside a holding cell.  John Johnson stands outside, talking to the men through the bars.

               “Two men skating together?” Eric says with skepticism.  “That’s a riot.  That’s a laugh riot.”  Not to mention that it’s not allowed.  _Is it?_

“I don’t see what’s funny,” Johnson says.  This story would move along a lot quicker if these two would just _get their shit together_.  But Johnson can’t say that he’s not having fun.

               “If you were as drunk as me, you would,” Bitty says.

               Jack rolls his eyes.  “Look, Coach.  I know I said that I wanted to skate pairs, but two men?  Even if we wanted to, they’d never allow it.”

               “But there’s nothing in the rulebook that says you can’t,” Coach Johnson rebuts.

               Bitty closes his hands around the cool metal of the cell.  “That’s not my style.  Eric Richard Bittle goes it alone.  Okay?  That means no coach and no partner.  Especially not the precious and pampered Richie Rich.”

               Jack flinches as he’s reminded of his parents and their successes.  “Would you just shut up?  You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

               “I know more than you think I know,” Bitty retorts.  “Hell, I know more that you know you know.”

               “No, you don’t,” Jack snaps.  “You could never keep up with my flawless technique.  That’s why I floored you in the spring of ’07.”

               “I _am_ figure skating!” Bitty yells, his fists clenching tighter on the bars.

               “Stop it!” Johnson yells.  As entertaining as it is to watch the pair fight, he’s starting to get a headache.  “For three years, I’ve been trying to get over the nightmare you two created.  I wasn’t sure I’d ever forget it.  Now, maybe underneath all your bullshit, we can still find something beautiful.”

               “I don’t know, Coach.  I mean, I’m really desperate to win that gold, but…”

               “But what?  How’s the partner search coming, kid?”

               Bitty snorts.

               “What’s so funny, Cool Whip?” Johnson says.  “You getting a lot of satisfaction from those five dollar cases of beer and cheap boxed wine?”

               Bitty startles, but he keeps his ‘cool persona’ with a weak attempt at a joke.  “I am never satisfied.  It’s a curse.”

               “It’s alcoholism,” Jack mutters.

               “The registration for the National Finals closes in exactly twelve hours.  Now, let me ask you boys a question.  Do you wanna make history?” says Johnson.   

               “No way.  This guy could not hold my jock sweat.”  Eric means the second part as a joke, but Jack takes it seriously.

               “I could hold it all day long.  Try me.”

               “Maybe I will.”

               “Maybe you should.”

               “You challenging me, Hotshot?”

               “I’m not inviting you to a Christmas Party,” Jack says sarcastically.

               “Then bring it on!”

               “It is _so_ on!”

               “Good,” Johnson interjects.  “We’re in agreement then.”

               Jack and Eric both stand up and say, “What?” at the same time.

               “Welcome back to competitive skating, gentlemen.  I’ll pick you up in the morning.”

               John Johnson leaves the two men, sputtering, in their holding cell.  He figures that they’ll be okay.

* * *

 

               Coach John Johnson leads Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle into the building.  Reporters, previously talking to various other skaters, swarm the men at the first sight of them.  Neither skater answers any of their questions.

               John takes a deep breath.  “Alright, boys.  Let’s go do this.  Loud and proud.”

               “What are you two doing here?” a nearby council member says.  “You know damn well I’m not letting either of you sign up.  You’re banned!”

               Johnson raises his voice so the whole room can hear.  “I’m not here to sign up Bittle or Zimmermann.”  He pauses for dramatic effects.  “I’m here to sign up the pairs team of Bittle _and_ Zimmermann.”

               Reporters clamor, rushing the men, encircling them even tighter.  Jostling, they all yell rude and invasive questions.

* * *

 

               John Johnson opens the door to the small cabin.  He leads the pair inside.  “Alright.  You’ll be staying here for the duration.  You’re gonna skate as a pair. You’ll live as a pair.  And if you’re at all interested in self-preservation, you’ll take off your shoes before you set foot on the Berber."

               “Why would we step in baby food?” Jack asks.

               “He’s talking about the carpet.  Berber?” Bittle answers.  Not rudely, but informatively.

               “What are you?  The Rug Doctor?” Jack bites.

               “Maybe I am.”

               “I’m the rug master.”

               “What does that even mean?” Bitty says.

               “Just shut up and take off your damn shoes,” Johnson interrupts.

               They walk to the bedrooms.  Or, rather, bed _room_.

               “Bunk beds?” Jack asks.

               “I don’t wanna share rooms with… _Jack_ ,” Bitty says.  If he’s being honest with himself, Bitty doesn’t think he could _handle_ sharing rooms with Jack.

               “Me neither.  Night is a very dark time for me,” Jack says.

               “It’s dark for everyone, moron.”

               “Not for Alaskans or dudes with night vision goggles.”

               “This,” Johnson starts, “is gonna stop right now.  From here on out, you guys are a team.  Do you understand?  You are going to eat together, sleep together.

               An intrusive thought tells Bittle that he wouldn’t mind sleeping with Jack.  He shakes his head.

               “You are going to dress together.  You’re gonna file a joint income tax return.  Practice starts now.  End of discussion.”  Johnson leaves the room, leaving the skaters to themselves.

               Bitty slowly walks closer to Jack.  “I’m on top,” Eric says, raising one eyebrow.

               Jack blushes.  Bitty thinks he could live off of that alone. 

               Two can play at that game, Jack thinks.  “I don’t think you’ve ever been on top in your whole life.  Are you even big enough?”

               “I’m plenty big enough for what _you’re_ talking about.  But _I_ was talking about the bunk beds.”

               Jack’s blush deepens; red creeps down his neck.

               “I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me to explain it to you,” Eric says.  “Or if you want a demonstration.”  He winks and goes to explore the rest of the house.

               Jack lets out a breath of air.

* * *

 

               Once sufficiently cooled down, Jack cautiously steps into the kitchen.  Bittle stands at the stove, fiddling with something.  Jack opens the fridge and pulls out some sort of protein shake or something that Bitty finds _completely disgusting_ and _wholly inedible._

               “Don’t mess those up; I just put those in order,” Eric says.

               “What are you doing?”

               “Maintenance.”

               “Cool mixer,” Jack, the man of few words and little knowledge about anything food-related, says.

               “It’s a food processor.  And it’s not just a food processor,” Bitty says.  “This is the Beyoncé of food processors.  This is the Vertigolin.  Handmade in Italy.  The blades are carved out of diamond.  They only make eleven of them a year.  Perfectly balanced.  Low drag.  Minimal torque.”

               Despite knowing absolutely nothing about kitchen appliances and caring even less, Jack is intrigued.  “How minimal?”

               “Wouldn’t you like to know?  Help yourself to the pies and other stuff I make all you want, but don’t even look at the Vertigolin.  No exaggeration. I could not love a human baby as much as I love this appliance.”

               Eric has another intrusive thought, but this time, it’s of Jack holding a baby.  _Their_ baby.  He could probably love that baby more than the food processor.  Eric has the urge to put his head in the Vertigolin.  The only thing that stops him is the damage the act would cause to the machine.

* * *

 

               The three men walk into the storehouse.

               “What is this place?” Eric asks.  “It smells like fish.”

               “Sweet,” Jack says just to be contradictory.  But even he can’t keep up his false positivity for that long.  “This ice has not been properly zambonied.  And where’s the warm-down room?”

               “We don’t have any of that,” Johnson says.  “What we have is a cold storage unit that a buddy of mine let me flood with a garden hose.  Now quit your whining and get your asses out on the ice.”

               Later, once the men have their skates on, Johnson goes through different techniques.  “The dance lift, the press lift, the twist lift, the side-by-side jump, the throw jump.  All of these are weapons in the pairs skaters’ arsenal.  And used properly, they can destroy your opponent.  Used improperly, you can break every bone in your body.”

               On that happy note, Jack and Eric skate out onto the ice.

               “Alright, gentlemen.  Waltz position.”

               Eric grabs Jack’s hand.

               Jack adjusts their hands, saying, “You know what, dude, your hand has to be on top.”

               “No way!  I called top yesterday.  It applies to hand positions, too.”

               “I’m bigger and stronger.  I get to be on top.”

               “Do not!”

               “Do, too!”

               “It doesn’t really matter; it’s just waltz position,” Johnson tries.

               “You’re too weak to be on top!  You’re too small!”

               “I am _not_!”

               “Jack’s on top,” Johnson finally says.

               “What?” Bitty yells.  “Why?”

               Jack smirks.

               “There’s no way you can lift Jack,” Johnson says.  “You’re on a diet, starting now.”

               “Eat more protein, Bittle,” Jack monotones.

* * *

 

               Back at the cabin later that night, Jack and Johnson sit at the kitchen table and eat.  Bittle is off to the side, bench pressing.  He’s stronger than he looks, but the other two won’t let him off the hook.

               “Could one of y’all pass me a biscuit?” Eric nearly begs.

               “Another thirty presses and you get some Muscle Milk.”

               “Aw, come on.”

               Johnson momentarily leaves the room for some undisclosed reason.  Eric takes the opportunity to get off the bench and run to the table.  He stuffs a biscuit in his mouth and shoves two more into his pants pockets.

               “You didn’t see shit!” Bitty says, muffled.

               “Coach!” Jack yells.

               “Shut up!” Bitty says.  “Throw me some pie!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I really like where this fic is going.
> 
> Note: the food processor thing was made up. And it was also my favorite part of this fic so far.
> 
> ALSO! Can we just talk about for one second how much Blades of Glory is a metaphor for being gay/coming out??? I think the movie would be better if there was some sort of 'gay acceptance' element to the story. Not necessarily romance, but something where the men come to terms with being gay. And not in a joking manner... Bc the part in the movie where the guy holds up the hot dog bun with two hot dogs in it and is like "does this look right to you?" pisses me off so much?? and the part where the boy is like "as if figure skating wasn't gay enough already" like what the fuck??? 
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos:) It always brightens my day when I get the email that someone commented.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Bitty compete at Nationals.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still have yet to learn anything about figure skating. Forgive me if this is a complete mess.

            At the repetitive prodding from Johnson, he, Jack, and Bitty stand in the middle of a dance studio.

            “This is stupid,” Bitty mumbles, his face as red as ever.

            The red-haired owner of the studio walks over to the men.  “I’m Will Poindexter.”  He shakes everyone’s hands.  “Welcome to Faber Dance.”

            “You’re gonna teach us to work together on the ice?” Jack asks.

            Will snorts.  “Oh, fuck no.  I’m just about the last person you want to teach you to dance.  I just own the studio.”

            “I’m the choreographer,” says a man in a leotard who walks up behind Will.  “I’m Derek Nurse, but you can call me Nursey.”

            “It’s not going to catch on, Derek!” Will yells, throwing his arms in the air.

            Jack smiles warmly and holds his hand out to the choreographer.  “Nursey, is it?” he ask, smirking.

            Will Poindexter’s cheeks go red with pent-up, long-festering anger.  Nursey laughs.  As Will walks away, Nursey shouts, “Babe!” after him.  Will gives him the finger over his shoulder.

            “Is he okay?” Eric asks.

            “Who?” Nursey says.

            Eric shakes his head in confusion.

            “Anyway.  To answer your previous question: I’m the one who’s gonna teach you to look good on the ice together.”

            “I already look good on the ice,” Bitty says.

            “I look better,” says Jack.

            Nursey sighs and rubs a hand over his face.  “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

* * *

 

            “Your problem is your boundaries,” Nursey says, pushing the two men closer together.  “That ends today.  Out on my dance floor, you won’t know where one man’s body ends and the other’s begins.  Because if you can’t dance with a man, you damn sure can’t skate with a man.”

            Jack grabs Bitty’s hand, and, for once, they don’t fight about who gets to be on top.  They dance and dance and dance and dance.  The next day, they’re back on the ice.  Nursey and Will come along to watch.

            They land the jump they’d been missing since they started practicing together.  It’s not perfect, but it’s better than anything else they’d done before.

            “You nailed it!” Johnson yells.  Despite knowing that that would happen, he can’t help his excitement.

            “Yes, I did.  See that?  Pure grace.  You could use a nickel's worth, Jack,” Bitty says.

            “Maybe if you spun faster at that quarter-turn, I wouldn't have to save your ass with my skating,” Jack spits back.

            “It's called improvisation,” Bitty says.

            Nursey sighs audibly.  “Well.  At least they’re getting the moves down.”

            “Yeah,” Will says.  “But can they do it in front of five judges and thirty million people?”

            Johnson smiles knowingly.

* * *

 

            It’s Nationals in Denver, Colorado.  The last stop on the road to the Olympics.  Bitty and Jack are incredibly nervous, but neither of them show it.

            The pair ahead of the men dances to some catchy pop song that Bitty can’t even hear, let alone dance along to (as he would if he was by himself in his room).

            Finally, after what seems like _years_ of waiting, the announcer calls, “Next, the pair team of Zimmermann and Bittle.”

            “And how is this going to work?” another announcer asks.  “Completely different skaters, known to be enemies of one another, combining to be the first male-male pair team in the history of the sport.”

            “This will either be the locked-in, technical style of Zimmermann or Bittle’s improvisations.”

            “Or they will create great music together and reinvent the sport in their own image.”

            Bitty looks around at the near-silent crowd with reservation in his big, brown eyes.  “They’re laughing at us.”

            “I like to think they’re laughing with us,” Jack says.  Bitty looks at him like he’s crazy.

            “Well,” an announcer says.  “Here’s the moment we’ve been waiting for, I guess.”

            When the first electronic, pop-y beats of the song plays through the speakers, Jack can’t help but smile.  He was hesitant, in the beginning, to let Bitty pick the music, but now he’s glad that he did.  He will remember Bitty’s face and Bitty’s rolling hips whenever this song plays.  What’s it called again?  "7/11."  That’s right.  By Beyoncé.

            They start skating.

            “So far, so good,” an announcer says.

            “Their first move’s so difficult.  Throw triple axel.”

            They do the move and—

            “Oh no!  Man down!” yells an announcer.

            Bitty flies across the ice on his side and hits the edge of the rink.  Jack quickly skates over, worry etching deep lines on his face.

            “I’ve never fallen once in competition,” Bitty says.  Jack’s relieved to see that he’s not hurt.

            Jack holds out his hand.  “Come on.  Take my hand.  We can do this.”

            Bitty takes the offered palm, and the men start skating again.

            “And they’re up!” says the announcer excitedly.

            “Come on, Denver!” Jack yells.  He’s full of adrenaline, and the crowd isn’t responding to any of the figure skating going on.  “Get off your asses!”

            The cheering first comes from none other than Kent Parson, in the form of, “You rock, Jack.  You look _soooo_ hot!”  Eventually, the rest of the crowd responds.

            “It’s the first time they’ve shown them any level of support—side-by-side double axels!” a scatter-brained, easily-excited announcer shouts.

            “Side-by side double axels!  Beautifully executed,” says another.

            “So many moves in this routine that I’ve never heard of before.”

            Jack and Bitty do something that the pair made up the other day in practice with some help from Nursey.

            “Yes!  Unbelievable finish to an incredible routine!” shouts an announcer.

            “And they've won this crowd over!”

            The crowd cheers and yells and whistles.  Kent Parson cries.  Jack was beautiful.

            “This might be enough,” an announcer speculates, “to send them to the Olympics as the first male-male representatives this sport has ever seen.”

            “History in the making.”

            “We love you, Denver,” Jack yells, pumping his fist in the air.  Bitty laughs and waves at the crowd.  They are on top of the world right now.

            “That’s what I’m talking about!” Nursey shouts.  The skaters didn’t even know that he was coming and, yes, there’s Will behind him, grinning broadly.

            “I'm so proud of you” Johnson says.  “Good job.”

             A couple minutes of anxious celebration passes.  Bitty stops the nearest lady with a tray of champagne and glasses.  Bypassing the glasses, Bitty pops the cork and chugs the alcohol.  Jack is disgusted and, if he’s being honest, a little impressed at how Bitty can hold his liquor.

            “Jack, Eric,” Will says.  “The scores are up.”

            The announcer reads, “... 5.9, 5.9, 5.8, 6.0!”

            “Yes! Yes!” Jack cheers.

            “Oh, my gosh!” Bitty says.  “We're going to the Olympics.  Fuck yes!” 

            A reporter comes over to the pair.  “Well, it's all smiles here in the kiss and cry area.  You're the guys everybody's talking about.  How does it feel?”

            “You know, we're just so grateful for this wonderful opportunity to be out here on the ice again...” Jack says formally before Bitty jumps in, giggly and bubbly from the champagne.

            “Bittle and Zimmermann are a freight train from hell, okay?  We're going straight up the ass of the competition, man.”

            Jack rolls his eyes, rubs a hand across his face, and starts to sport a rather big, embarrassed blush.

            “I'm not gonna say wow, but wow!” Nursey says to Johnson, a little ways away from the pair of skaters.

            “They got by on ninety-seven percent adrenaline and three percent bullshit,” Johnson says.  It’s true; Johnson’s had ample time to do the math.  “If they wanna take home the gold, they gotta do something spectacular.”

            “John, I know where this is going.  How many times do you have to make the same mistake?”

            “Till I get it right,” Johnson sighs.  “You gotta trust me, Derek.”  Johnson walks away.

            “I told you, man,” Derek yells.  “Call me Nursey!”

* * *

 

            After a day to recuperate, the pair is back in the warehouse to practice.

            “All right, listen up.  You guys barely squeaked by at Nationals,” John Johnson says.  “How are we gonna compete against teams that have been doing this for years?  There’s only one way.”

            “I get what you’re saying, Coach,” Jack says.  “What do we have that none of the other teams have?”

            “Yet-to-be-resolved gay feelings,” Johnson says.

            “What?  No—no,” Jack says.  He looks at Bitty, and Bitty looks back at him.  Their faces go red, and they turn away from each other.

            “See what I mean about the unresolved gay angst?” Johnson whispers to Nursey.

            Nursey nods knowingly.

            “I was talking about male strength,” Jack says.  “Have you been eating more protein, Bittle?”

            “Yeah, plus I’ve been lifting weights and doing squats.”

            Jack pretends that he hasn’t noticed the good—great—effects of those squats.

            “Anyway,” Johnson says.  As much as he likes these two finally _almost_ acknowledging their feelings, he knows that this isn’t the time when they get together.  “We have to do something that only two men can do together.  Something never seen before.  Derek, put in the tape.”

            Nursey hesitates by the old television.

            “Come on.  Put in the tape, Derek.” 

            When Nursey finally does, Johnson says, “Thank you.”

             A video, dark and grainy, starts to play.

            “Jack, I never told you this, but I used to coach pairs before I coached you.  I was on track to head up the Olympic squad.  I wanted it badly, so I developed a move—a move the likes of which the world had never seen before.  A move so revolutionary, so dangerous, that it would have catapulted the team that stuck it straight to the top.

            “And, like many revolutionary ideas, it just scared the shit out of the establishment.  So I quit.  And I took it to the one place on earth batshit crazy enough to give it a try—a place that I cannot disclose to you.  They called it the ‘Iron Lotus’ there.”

            The video plays.  A man and a woman skate in front of hundreds of thousands of people.

            “Look at the grace, the beauty.  They almost had it, until…”

            The man throws the woman in the air.  He jumps, flips upside down.  The woman lands on the ice.  Her body, cut and sliced, falls to pieces.  The video cuts off in with a sudden flash of white light.

            “Oh, my gosh,” Bitty says.  Everyone except Johnson looks horrified.

            “Okay,” Johnson says.  “What do you say we give it a try?”

            “Are you nuts?” Jack shouts.

            “What?  That’s crazy!” Bitty says.

            “You can’t—”

            “There’s no way—”

            “Come on.  What are you talking about?  See, after all these years, I know what went wrong.  The physics were off.  It was a man and a woman; that’s why it didn’t work.  You’re two men.  You should be fine.”

            Eric and Jack look skeptical, but they trust their coach.  They take to the ice.

            “Be warned.  The Iron Lotus demands your respect.  She has no time for lone wolves, Eric.  Jack, you’ve gotta be willing to improvise.  You two are the last pieces of the puzzle!” Johnson yells.  “Go on!  Fit them together!”

            They practice and practice and practice for a whole week.  They get barely anywhere with the Iron Lotus. 

            A plus, however, is that Jack and Eric seem to trust each other more since Nationals.  They look like a cohesive pair on the ice.  They aren’t yelling and screaming at each other like before.

* * *

 

            “We got two days till the Olympics,” Johnson yells.  “I wanna see an Iron Lotus.”

            Jack does his flip move with a cloth mannequin hanging from the ceiling.  Jack’s skates cut of the mannequin’s head.  Eric’s stomach flips.

            Johnson doesn’t look dissuaded.  “Okay.  Try it again.”

            Jack cuts the mannequin’s head off again.

            “You’re gonna kill him!  Watch the blade!”

            Bittle leaves to throw up in a garbage can.

            Jack cuts the head off again.

            “Come on!”

            Again.

            “Try it again!”

            Again.

            “One more,” Jack says, skating by Bittle.  “I’m really close.”

            The next decapitated head rolls to a stop at Bitty’s feet.  He picks it up and stares at it, feeling sick to his stomach again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fucking updates fucked me up so much. I'm dead.
> 
> And also??? Nursey as a dance instructor is something I never knew I needed until I was looking for someone to be Jesse.
> 
> Anyway. Thanks for reading. I humbly and graciously appreciate every comment, kudos, and view!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Final Skate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter *tear*. I hope you enjoy it.

                Jack and Bitty both take deep breaths as they walk to their rooms at the Olympic Village.  They just finished the parade.  They have two days to practice, and then they skate the next day.

            The two days pass by in the blink of an eye.  On the second day, Jack and Bitty had gotten into a huge fight because Jack is only able to land the Iron Lotus seventy-five percent of the time.  That is definitely not good enough for Bitty.  Jack had called Bitty a coward, and Bitty had stormed out of practice.

            That night, Jack sits in his room, feeling sad and angry.  He doesn’t know where Bitty is; he hasn’t seen him since practice.  When there’s a knock on the door, Jack stands up off the bed, opens it, and says, “Bitty.”

            “Nope,” a deep voice answers.  “Just me.”

            It’s Jack’s father.

            “Dad?  What are you doing here?”

            “I came to talk.  Johnson told me what happened at practice.”

            Jack blushes and ducks his head.

            “I think you need to go find your skating partner.”

            “What for?  He’s right; I can’t hit our routine.”

            “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,” Bob says.

            “That’s good.  Who said that?”

            “I did.  Now go get Bittle.”

            When Jack’s father leaves, Jack goes across the hall to Bitty’s room.  He’s not in there.  Jack goes back to his room and pulls out his phone.  He stifles a yawn and calls Bittle.

            “Come on, pick up.  Come on, bud.”

            He reaches Bitty’s voicemail.  “Bits.  It’s me, Jack...”

            As the night wears on, and Jack gets more and more tired, his voicemails get weirder and weirder.

            “Bitty, it’s me, Jack.  Look, what happened earlier today, _so_ not a big deal.  Hey, you have a seventy-five percent chance of living to see yourself win gold!  Look, that's not coming out right.  I'll explain it.  Call me back, please.”

+++

            “It's me, Jack.  I'm committed to this thing called friendship.  And I ain't going nowhere.  And if you think I'm going anywhere, you're wrong. You know why?  Because I will not back down, ever!  I've won a lot of radio contests, because I refused to get off the line!”

+++

            “If we went to a Halloween party dressed as Batman and Robin, I'd go as Robin.  That's how much you mean to me.  Okay.  Call me back, Bitty.  I love you.”

+++

            “That was stupid that I said that.  You know what?  No.  I don't think that's stupid.  I'm glad that I said that.”

+++

            “Don't wanna close my eyes.  Don't wanna fall asleep.  'Cause I miss you, Bitty.  And I don't wanna miss a thing,” Jack sings.  “So call me back now!”

+++

            “Hey, yikes.  Sorry.”

+++

            “Hey, it's me again.  Bitty, please, call me back, so we can talk.”

+++

            Jack falls asleep at four o’clock.  They’re set to skate at eight.

* * *

 

            The next morning at six, Bitty stands next to John Johnson and Derek Nurse on the side of the rink.

            Johnson says, “Where the fuck is Jack?”  He knows where Jack is, of course.  He also knows that Bitty has to go back to the Village and…

            “I don’t know, Coach.  How the fuck would I know?”

            “You’re his partner!”

            “And you’re his coach!”

            Johnson sighs.  It’s too early for this shit.  Of course, time is just a made-up concept.  “Just go find him, okay?  Or I’m putting both your asses back on a plane to the States.”

            Bitty grumbles, but he follows orders.

* * *

 

            There’s another knock on Jack’s door.  He wakes with a start, looks at the clock, and rushes to the door.

            “Bitty,” he says breathlessly.  “I left you like sixty voicemails.”

            “What?  Oh.  I turned my phone off last night.”

            “And you survived without your phone?” Jack chirps.

            Bitty smiles and lightly punches Jack on the shoulder.  “We gotta skate soon, Mr. Zimmermann.”

            When Jack comes back from getting dressed, he says, “Hey.  Are we cool?”

            Bittle takes a shaky, nervous breath.  “Yeah.  I guess I’m just a little stressed out about this.”

            “Hey.  If you don’t wanna do the Lotus, we can cut it out.  Your safety means much, much more to me than some worthless necklace.”

            “Are you talking about a gold medal, Jack?”

            “Of course.  It doesn’t mean as much to me as you do.  I have enough gold medals already; there’s only one Eric Bittle.”

            Eric sniffles.  “Oh, Jack.”

            “You miss one hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,” Jack mumbles.

            “What?”

            Jack leans down and kisses Bitty with everything he’s got.  It’s warm and soft and tender and everything that either man had been dreaming about.  Jack cups Bitty’s cheeks, and Bitty rests his hands against Jack’s chest.

            Bitty curls his hands lower, to the waistband of Jack’s pants.

            Jack pulls away and says, “Shit!  We’re gonna be late!”  He grabs Bitty’s hand and pulls him down the hallway.

            Bitty’s cheeks are flushed and he can barely think straight (not that he ever could before…)

* * *

 

            The pair from America are queued up to go next.  Their nerves are jittery.  Jack squeezes Bitty’s hand comfortingly.

            “Good luck,” Nursey says.  “Break a leg.”

            “Or an ankle…,” Johnson mutters.

            With that… _odd_ comment, the pair skates onto the ice.        

            “Let’s kick some ice,” Bitty says with a smile.

            Jack nods, and the two skate to opposite sides of the rink.

            Beyoncé once again pours through the speakers, though this time it is “Crazy in Love.”  The men skate at each other.

_I look and stare so deep in your eyes,_

_I touch on you more and more every time._

            They skate in circles, then leap in the air and bump chests in some made-up ice trick.  The crowd cheers.

_'Cuz I know I don't understand,_

_Just how your love can do what no one else can._

They glide around, smiling at each other.  They kick their skates up and knock them together in a dangerous symphony of _chink, chink, chink._   Jack picks Bitty up upside down, and they do alternating cartwheels down the ice.  Nobody in the world has ever seen anything like this before.

            Bitty skates in front of Jack and rolls his body to the music.

_Got me looking so crazy right now,_

_Your love's got me looking so crazy right now._

            “What are you doing?” Jack hisses.   

            “We’re freestyling.  You’re the crust, and I’m the filling.  Make it sexy.  Burn up the ice with your red hot love.”

            Jack listens, albeit with a blush, and lewdly dances behind Bitty.  The crowd takes notice, and they cheer louder than ever before.

            “Zimmermann and Bittle turn up the thermostat,” an announcer says.

            Another one says, “These guys put the ‘bone’ in 'Zamboni'.”

            “Would you like it if I called you ‘ _Zimm_ boni’?” Bittle asks with a breathless laugh.

            “Shut up and skate.”

            The pair curves around the edge of the rink and… there’s a loud _crack_!  There was something on the ice, and Jack’s hurt.

            He stumbles, but remains upright.  Bitty’s worried; he mirrors Jack’s improvisations on the ice.

            “I think I broke my ankle,” Jack says.  “Imma put some weight on it and see.”

            Jack does, and he groans loudly in pain.  Again, Eric mirrors him.  He fights away the thoughts of Jack groaning like that.  For a different reason, of course.  _After_ they win gold.

            Nursey’s eyes are wide on the side of the rink.  Johnson flinches; he never likes to see anybody get hurt.

            “I don’t know,” an announcer says.  “I’m not sure interpretive dance moves are gonna win these judges over.”

            “What the hell are they doing?” Nursey asks.

            “Something’s wrong,” Johnson answers.

            “I can’t do the Lotus with a shattered ankle,” Jack says.  “I’m just a man, for God’s sake.”

            “We’ll switch places,” Bitty says with confidence.

            Jack pauses a moment, but eventually says, “I swear to God, if you cut my head off…”

            Bitty turns around and skates backwards in front of Jack.  They lift their arms in unison.

            “They're going for the Iron Lotus.  In reverse,” Johnson explains to Nursey.

            “They're picking up speed for something spectacular,” the announcer says.

            “Looks like they might be trying something I have never seen done.”

            Jack smiles at Bitty, and Bitty smiles back.  Jack gets on his good ankle, turns around, and offers his skate to his teammate.

            Bitty grabs ahold of Jack’s ankle.  The pair picks up speed, and Bitty lifts Jack in the air by his foot.  They spin around.

            “It is the fabled Iron Lotus!” the announcer shouts in excitement.

            “No!  Don't do it!  We were wrong!  It's suicide!” Nursey yells.

            They move up and down, up and down, until…

            Bitty lets go of Jack.  The latter man goes high in the air, somersaulting at the peak.  Bitty flips upside down, his skates going up, up.  And just missing Jack’s neck.  Bitty lands on the ice, and he grabs Jack’s ankle as the man comes down.  They clasp hands.

            Jack takes a deep breath, and… and he’s alive!

            The crowd erupts into cheers.  They blow the roof off the Olympic building.

            “And they nail it!  What an unbelievable performance!  This crowd is going wild!  They’re on their feet!  I never thought I’d see it with my own eyes: the fabled Iron Lotus!” an announcer screams.

            “A historic event here today.  Zimmermann and Bittle have brought the legend to life.”

            “Jack!  Jack!  We did it!” Bitty yells.

            He asks, “Did we win?”  His face is pale, and his eyes are rolling around in his head.

            “I don’t know.”

            The judges and announcers respectfully wait until Jack is fitted with a boot to read out the scores.  It’s not customary, but the crowd is boisterous enough over the Iron Lotus that they don’t even realize that it’s been almost ten minutes.

            Bitty, on the other hand, is incredibly nervous.  Not just about the scores, but about Jack as well.  He paces.

            Eventually, Jack comes limping over to the waiting area.

            “Jack, you’re okay.”

            “It was just a broken ankle,” he tells Bitty.  “You were incredible.”

            “Really?  I thought my landing on that one jump was—”

            Jack kisses Bitty, in a cliché that gets him to shut up.  Their scores are read out.  Both Jack and Bitty listen, while continuing to remain close to each other.

            Bitty pulls a hair’s breadth away. “Hey,” he says, leaning his forehead against Jack’s.  “We won gold.”

            “Yeah.”

            “Fucking finally,” Johnson mutters.  He needs a long nap after all this.

* * *

 

            On the medal stage, Jack and Bitty stand on the highest tier.  Gold is placed around their necks.  They smile; they are happier than they’ve ever been before.  This is the type of moment they make movies, write books, and create poetry about.

            “Jack, you did it!” Kent Parson yells from the stands.  “The gold medal, baby!  You did it!  I wanna wear the gold… on my birthday… naked.”

            The crowd is deafening.

            Jack and Bitty kiss, one more time, on the world’s stage.

            Jack Zimmermann and Eric Bittle _are_ figure skating.

            And they’re gonna live happily ever after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to y'all for reading whatever the hell this shitstorm was. Idk. I just love Blades of Glory and also Check, Please....
> 
> Thank you for all the comments and kudos. You have no idea how much they mean to me.
> 
> Sorry about the wait for this chapter.

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to spookydunmer.tumblr.com for beta-reading this!
> 
> Find me on tumblr at fiftyshadesofthegreylady.tumblr.com
> 
> Check out my other fics?? Idk. If you want to... (if you haven't noticed between my fics, I'm very partial to 80s rock songs...)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Comments are much appreciated!!!!!


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